Dread
by Connie rose
Summary: "He couldn't tell them. Any of them. Not his parents. Not Davey. Not Jack. Not the newsies. He couldn't look at them when they realized he'd failed. They'd be so disappointed, maybe even angry." Written for the fourth circulation of the Newsies Pape Selling Competition.


**Hi, all!**

 **Not much to tell you for this one. It was written for the fourth circulation of the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. Can you believe we're at Circulation 4 already?**

 **Huge thanks to Charlotte and sonicblue99 (as always).**

 **Requirements:**

 **Task** **-** **Write about something that a character dreads that either happens to them or someone else they know/love, or write about them being forced to tell about this thing that they dread most.**

 **Word Count: 762**

* * *

The whole city seemed to be shrouded in clouds. They hung low over the buildings, dumping rivers of freezing water on everything in sight.

Water was pooling everywhere. In the gutters. In cracks in the street. In the barrels and buckets and wagons that had been abandoned to the mercy of the rain. In the brim of Les' hat as he sat on the stoop of the Newsboy's lodging house, completely unprotected from the rain.

Les shivered. He was soaked to the bone, his clothes sticking to every bit of skin they covered. Every movement he made was echoed by water sloshing out of his hat brim.

Most people would have gone inside by now, but Les couldn't bring himself to do so. He found himself staring at the stack of sodden papes by his feet. The ink was running across the papers, bleeding into a puddle of water. They were still all in that stack. All fifty of the papers he had bought to sell that morning, mocking him.

Whether it was the post-thunder echo given off by the sky, or the harsh, sheeting air that pooled under his jacket, he couldn't tell, but Les was sure the city was laughing at him.

He rubbed water out of his eyes with ink-stained hands. He knew he should go inside the lodge and get out of the rain. Turning around to stare at the lodging house door, Les bit his lip. The door seemed to lean away from him, disgusted with him, and he thought that if he reached out to touch it, it might snarl in his face. He could try and face the beast, but what was the point?

He knew what they'd say, and he didn't think he could face it. Would he really be able to stand there and watch their reactions, when he told them he'd sold nothing?

His family needed the money, now more than ever. Davey was sick, and if Les closed his eyes he could still hear that horrible hacking cough that had kept him up the night before. The newsies had all offered to help, but Les had been insistent. He didn't need to sell with Jack. He didn't need the extra papes the boys had offered to buy for him. He could do it on his own. He could sell by himself. He could make enough money to get Davey the doctor he desperately needed.

 _God_ , he'd messed up so bad.

He couldn't tell them. Any of them. Not his parents. Not Davey. Not Jack. Not the newsies. He couldn't look at them when they realized he'd failed. They'd be so disappointed, maybe even angry.

Les shook his head, trying to rid himself of the ringing in his ears. He could hear their reactions, see their expressions.

Jack refusing to look at him, the reason one of his best friends wasn't going to get better. Saying those awful words, _"This is your fault._ "

His mother's heartbroken face as she slipped back into the sick room to care for Davey. Not saying the phrase she was thinking, _"This is your fault."_

Davey looking pale and shaking beneath his blankets, brow slick with sweat, staring at him with glazed eyes. _"This is your fault."_

" _This is my fault."_

Les didn't know if he had spoken aloud or not. But it didn't matter. It was true. It was _all his fault._

He couldn't stay here. The longer he sat on the stoop the more he was certain of it. He had failed them. Failed them all. They didn't need him; he'd just bring more failure.

It would be so easy. He could just get up and start walking. It didn't matter that he had no destination in mind. All he had to do was keep walking until he was far enough away. The rain would wash away the stack of newspapers, destroying the last piece of evidence that Les had been there at all. It would fix everything.

They'd probably be glad to be rid of him. He was more trouble than he was worth.

He was on his feet, ready to go, ready to flee, when the door to the lodging house swung open. Les froze in the light that poured from within. He could make out shapes, an arm here, a face there. They had seen him.

It didn't matter. He could still go. He could still run. They wouldn't chase him, he wasn't worth that.

A hand reached out and caught his arm just as he was about to take off.

"Les?"


End file.
